Whatever It Takes
by BelinasEgg
Summary: Sherlock will do whatever it takes to catch Moriarty. But when Mycroft offers Sherlock a place in a dancing competition, with the hopes that Moriarty will relax and make a mistake, will Sherlock accept? No Slash. Rating could possibly go up.
1. The Only Way?

**Okay! A new fic. I hope its going to be okay. (= Basically, this dancing competition is a rip off of Strictly Come Dancing, or, I believe you Americans had a show called Dancing with the Stars. I'll explain it all later.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter One - The Only Way...?<strong>

**First Day, Saturday, 11.00 AM**

"No. No, and for the third time, no!" Sherlock's voice wafted down the staircase to where John was struggling with three bags of shopping.

John paused for a moment, and then heard the screeching of a tormented violin as Sherlock scraped that appalling sound out of it. He sighed. _Mycroft. _He heard a softer murmuring, that was obviously Mycroft, trying to persuade Sherlock to do whatever he wanted him to this time.

Struggling up the final few steps, John pushed the door open with his shoulder and dumped the shopping bags in the kitchen. He winced as Sherlock elicited a particularly gruesome note from his violin. He turned to see Sherlock lounging on the sofa, and Mycroft seated in a chair, umbrella resting on his lap.

"Think about it Sherlock, this will help you." said Mycroft sternly.

"I am not humiliating myself in front of the whole nation," Sherlock sniffed. "I do have some pride."

"Embarrassed Sherlock? I really wouldn't expect it from you." said Mycroft slyly.

The violin expressed Sherlock's anger at this statement, even Mycroft winced.

"I'm offering you an unique opportunity, and it _will _help you catch Moriarty." said Mycroft.

The violin halted mid scream.

The merest mention of Moriarty was always enough to catch Sherlock's attention. He was obsessed with the man, ever since the 'pool thing', Sherlock had been desperate to catch Moriarty, but so far, after two months, had gotten nowhere. John was sick of the whole thing, but he knew he would sleep easier knowing that Moriarty was safely stowed away somewhere. He wouldn't mind the fact that Sherlock was chasing Moriarty, except that after two months of fruitless searching, Sherlock had gotten more and more annoyed, and very, very cranky.

"I want Moriarty caught as much as you do, Sherlock. So let me help you."

Mycroft's expression seemed sincere to John, but then he wasn't Sherlock, maybe Mycroft was lying... Sherlock's face was blank, cold grey eyes watching Mycroft's every move, trying to figure out the same thing as John.

"Moriarty is being deadly careful, he knows he can't slip up while your watching," Mycroft paused. "So he needs to think that your busy. And it needs to be very public, otherwise he'll know it's a ruse. This will be perfect."

"I still don't see how appearing on millions of televisions and-"

"Moriarty will love it, and he'll relax. You can make you move easily." Mycroft sat back, waiting for questions.

"How do you know that Moriarty wont guess this is a ruse?" asked Sherlock, keeping his voice emotionless.

"He will suspect it at first, but after a few weeks, he'll forget the notion."

Sherlock allowed the slightest frown to draw his eyebrows together. John hurried into the kitchen, and began to put the shopping away. He wasn't sure what Mycroft wanted Sherlock to do. It didn't sound good, if Sherlock - the man who could do almost anything without the slightest sign of embarrassment - would shrink away from the prospect. He switched the kettle on, and returned to the living room. Mycroft was fiddling with his umbrella, watching Sherlock intently, Sherlock in his turn was idly plucking at the strings of his violin, forehead creased in thought.

"Tea, Mycroft?" asked John, breaking the silence as he hovered in the background.

"Yes please, John. No sugar, strong." said Mycroft, while Sherlock gave a terse nod.

John nodded, an pulled three mugs out of the cupboard, waiting for the kettle to boil.

A few minutes later he returned to a scene which had not changed in the slightest in his absence. He handed Mycroft his mug, placed Sherlock's on the coffee table, then seated himself on his chair, gaze swapping from one Holmes to another. The two brother interested him greatly, especially when they interacted. Sherlock, cold and unemotional Mycroft, a little more cordial.

It was a few more minutes of intense silence, before Sherlock righted himself, and took the mug in both hands, downing the tea in one. Then he eyed Mycroft a little suspiciously.

"I'll think about it. I need to know more about this... thing. And what I'll have to do." he said slowly, eyes narrowed.

"Good. John can fill you in on all the necessaries. You will have my complete backup in this scheme, and if you require any assistance... Tell me your decision tomorrow."

"Yes. Yes, okay. Now, go." snapped Sherlock, flinging his violin to the far end of the sofa, and glaring coldly at Mycroft until he rose.

"Thank you for the tea, John. Try to persuade Sherlock. See you tomorrow." he nodded cordially, and left.

The two flatmates waited until Mycroft was well and truly gone, before turning to look at each other.

"What's this all about?" asked John suspiciously.

Sherlock sighed, rolling languidly onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

"Mycroft wants me to enter some kind of dancing competition, you know why." he drawled, eyes closing in thought.

"W-What"?

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he stared coldly at John.

"Mycroft wants me t-"

"I heard that alright, but can you actually dance?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, having the nerve to look affronted. "Mummy forced me to as a child... But it wouldn't matter if I couldn't."

John frowned.

"So, what competition is it?"

"Oh, I don't know. The Dance something or other. Is that really important?" he asked, taking a slight double take when he saw John's jaw drop. "Are you alright?"

John burst out laughing, managing to spill tea everywhere. It was at least a minute before he managed to set the mug down, and suppress his giggles.

"You... in The Dance Floor. Now _that _would be worth watching!" he sniffed, wiping away the tears.

"Please John. This is no joke. Mycroft seems to think this way help me catch Moriarty, and he could easily get me a place in this show."

"Your serious..." said John.

"Yes. Now tell me what's so funny. Though on second thoughts, I don't want to know. It would no doubt be insulting." Sherlock sniffed superiorly.

John hiccuped, biting his lip as he face scrunched up with silent laughter again. He quickly regained composure.

"Do you think it would help you catch Moriarty?" he asked, serious.

"I think my brother may have a point, just this once. All I need is for Moriarty to make one small mistake. If he thinks I'm busy dancing or whatever, then it'll be the perfect chance to get him."

John nodded, it made sense. If you were a genius.

"Okay, so you enter Dance Floor, and Moriarty is so busy laughing his head off, you catch him?"

"I suppose that's the plan, though if Moriarty 'laughed his head off' I doubt I would need to catch him." said Sherlock.

"I didn't mean literally. But wont your time be taken up training?"

"Training? No. I'll just do the dance a few times, and that'll be it." said Sherlock, bringing his finger tips together, and watching John closely.

John chewed his lip for a few seconds, trying to find a flaw in the plan.

"Why does it have to be The Dance Floor? You could just pretend to do a case."

"Well, I suppose. It would certainly be easier, but I think it more likely that Moriarty fall for the trick if he finds it... amusing." said Sherlock.

John nodded, at the 'pool thing' Moriarty certainly seemed to have some kind of sick humour. There was a long silence. In which John tried to push the image of Sherlock twirling round the stage, covered in some kind of glittery stuff. Sherlock watched him, obviously waiting for an answer.

"Look, your the genius, Sherlock. You decide." said John finally, unable to bear the cold gaze that fell upon him.

"I suppose your right." said Sherlock, languidly rolling onto his back and stretching out across the whole length of the sofa.

John shrugged, and made his way back to the kitchen.

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><p><strong>Review would be nice *hint*<strong>


	2. If I Really Must

**Here is the next chapter. Fairly short, compared to the last, but it's more plot setting than anything.**

**Forget this for the last chapter**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any Sherlock characters, BBC and **Arthur Conan Doyle own them. ****

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><p><strong>Chapter Two - If I Really Must<strong>

**Next Day, Sunday, 7.00 AM**

John had gone to bed late, telling Sherlock he should too. But it wasn't really a surprise when he found the detective in almost exactly the same position as before, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

"Is it really worth making a fool of myself, just to catch Moriarty?" he asked, though John wasn't sure who. He decided to answer anyway.

"Well, I guess. And you don't normally mind acting stupidly."

Sherlock grunted.

"I do not act _stupidly_. It's just you're all to dense to make head or tail of it."

John rolled his eyes, but thought better of answering back.

"You still haven't answered my first question." said Sherlock after a moments pause.

"I think it's worth it. It's your pride against tens, maybe hundreds, of lives." he said, flipping the kettle on.

"I'll never hear the end of it..." Sherlock sighed, in a saintly sort of way. "And it'll be so boring!"

"But you'll catch him." said John, tapping his fingers against the worktop.

There was a long silence from the consulting detective, as he thought. Weighing up the pros and cons to the situation. John was pouring himself a cup of tea when Sherlock finally spoke.

"I'll do it." he said hollowly, as though he had agreed to go on a suicide mission, and not appear on a dancing show.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be a big hit with the audience." John said, sitting in his chair, and grabbing the nearest newspaper.

**Four Hours Later, 11.00 AM**

Sherlock had spent four hours moaning. It wouldn't have been so bad, except for the fact that John had to answer from time to time, and got quizzed on what Sherlock had just said.

"What did I just say?" Sherlock would snap, mid rant.

"Erm... Something about Mycroft being an idiot?" John would say vaguely.

"What! No, that was half an hour ago. Do keep up John, it's dull when you don't. I was saying about how-"

And so it went on, until there was a knock at the door, and Mycroft appeared. John was about to rise, but Mycroft had already let himself in, and swept over and seated himself.

"Well Sherlock. The managers of the dance want an answer." he said, getting to the point.

"I'll do it." Sherlock said coldly.

"Excellent. Your a bit late, the others have been doing dance practise, but I'll doubt you need that." He gave Sherlock that thin lipped smile. "I'll come and pick you up at three next Saturday."

"Why?"

"Because you will be introduced to your dance partner that day."

"Why three?"

"They need to spruce you up a bit before the show starts."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look of horror, and glanced around for his violin. John had had the foresight to move it from Sherlock's reach. John mentally counted the days. It was Sunday today, so that meant six days until Sherlock had to go. Six days of moaning... He'd have to get Lestarde to find a case that would keep Sherlock busy.

"Then, you'll have a week to practise your dance, and then on the next Saturday you'll do it." said Mycroft.

Sherlock gave a non-committal sound, that could have meant anything.

"Sherlock, you have to stay in the competition at least four weeks."

"I reckon five, you underestimate Moriarty." Sherlock said coolly.

"Very well, half way through the competition. As soon as you've caught him, you can pull out."

"Can you. Just pull out?" asked Sherlock hopefully.

"We can say that you broke an ankle or something."

Sherlock nodded, face clear of any emotion.

"John, you can come on Saturday. Every contestant gets two free tickets for family and friends.'"

John nodded, not sure whether going was a great idea, if Sherlock did anything, like blow the place up, he didn't want to be responsible.

"And finally Sherlock, your not going to lie about to much. Say your a consulting detective, but don't go into much detail." said Mycroft sternly.

"Right. Lie about important things." he droned

"Good, I think we've got everything covered. You know how the show works, I presume."

"John can fill me in later. You can leave. Now." said Sherlock, ice dripping from each syllable.

"Very well, don't do anything rash until the competition starts." said Mycroft.

So that's exactly what Sherlock did.

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><p><strong>'Kay! That's that. Next chapter will be up by the 1st of November.<strong>

**Review! The Button is just down there... \/**


	3. Trust Him

**Chapter Three, getting rid of that nasty little cliffy I left in the last chapter! I hope you like it, do you think John and Sherlock are in character, or out of it? Opinions always welcome! (=**

**I would like to thank CountryGrl for beta reading (or proofreading as I say) this chapter! She's my first beta reader, and is epic! **

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><p><strong>Chapter Three - Trust Him<strong>

**Five Days Later, Friday, 6.00 PM**

John ran full pelt behind Sherlock, trying to keep sight of him as they wove through the maze of skips. Trust Sherlock to discover that the criminal's hideout was in a skip warehouse... They had been working on this particular case for three days. John had welcomed it with open arms, as it stopped Sherlock's moaning. The only reason they were still working on it was that the culprit had escaped.

A jewellery shop had been robbed. Nothing had been forced. The shop keeper had found that half his most precious jewellery had gone, and his assistant had reported it to the police. It had taken Sherlock twenty minutes to accuse the shop keeper of stealing his own wares, and then, when they couldn't be found, claiming the insurance. He could sell the jewellery later. The problem had occurred when the shop keeper was nowhere to be found, so Lestrade, unaware of Sherlock's dancing duties, had sent him to find the criminal. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, had accepted.

So now, they were running through the skip warehouse. Sherlock had tracked the shop keeper to this place, through his homeless network. Sherlock was now slowly getting further ahead of John, coat flapping, and scarf trailing behind. John caught a flicker of something out the corner of his eye, and came to an abrupt halt.

"Sherlock!" His voice echoed through the warehouse.

The detective turned on a sixpence, and bounded over. John slowly walked forward, wishing he had a flash torch. It would be extremely useful.

Sherlock appeared at his shoulder as they crept forward.

"Careful John, he's armed." he hissed, just as a shot rang out.

Sherlock's reaction was super fast, and John guessed he must have been expecting this. He shoved John to one side, and into the shelter of a skip. He wasn't quite fast enough though.

John felt a sharp pain in his right thigh, and collapsed against the skip's cold side, gasping for breath. He looked around, but Sherlock was already gone, not noticing that his friend had been shot.

"Trust him." John murmured darkly, pulling his leg into a more comfortable position, and peering down at it. The pain wasn't actually so bad, not as bad as his shoulder had been. On a quick examination, he found the bullet had lodged in the soft tissue of his leg, and hadn't come into contact with any bones. John gave a slightly shaky sigh of relief, only to jump in surprise as one shot, then another, rang through the warehouse.

He pressed his trouser against his wound, not wanting it to bleed any more. He was feeling a little light-headed already. John swallowed back the nausea that had crept up his throat at the sight of the blood. Where the hell was Sherlock? He should have caught the thug and found him again. He didn't think about the possibility that Sherlock had been shot, it was just too horrid.

Another shot echoed through the warehouse, and then, about thirty seconds after, a muffled scream. John was reassured that it hadn't been directly after the shot, but he still couldn't be sure who had screamed. He felt awful, just sitting there while Sherlock fought on his own. But Sherlock could look after himself. Hopefully he wouldn't pick up any black eyes, that would just ruin his appearance for the dancing show. Nothing happened for a minute or so, and then, a slightly panicked cry boomed around the warehouse.

"John?"

John breathed out in relief, Sherlock was fine, and hopefully he had caught the criminal.

"Where the first shot was fired." John called weakly. Sherlock would be able to find his way now. He had an amazing ability to remember every detail of London, or, in this case, skip warehouses.

Sure enough, a minute later, Sherlock skidded round the corner, and spotted John. He hurried to his side and silently examined the wound.

"Nothing serious." he said curtly, offering a hand and pulling John gently to his feet. "I caught our crook. He'll be unconscious for half an hour, so the police can pick him up. You need to get out of here."

Sherlock considered for a second, then lifted a protesting John into his arms.

Sherlock! I can walk. It's not that bad."

"If we want to get out of here in the next century, I think this plan is better." snapped Sherlock.

John gave a few more weak protests, but Sherlock ignored him, and soon they were outside the warehouse. Sherlock gently set John against the warehouse wall, and pulled out his mobile. He had a brief and terse conversation with Lestrade, then crouched down next to John.

"Lestrade's coming, with an ambulance. He doesn't want you bleeding all over his police car."

John gave a half hearted grin. His leg was aching, but luckily it was bearable. Ten minutes later, the flashing lights of a police car came out of the darkness, and Sherlock stood, waving his arms. The car turned, and blinded them with its headlights, then stopped, but left its lights on, though on a dimmer setting. Lestrade ran up to them, and gave both John and Sherlock a quick once over. His gaze lingered on John's blood-stained trouser leg.

"Ambulance coming." he said curtly, apparently too busy for proper sentences.

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't seem in the mood to correct him. A few more policemen had emerged from the car, and with flashlights blazing, entered the warehouse. John used the light from the car to get a proper look at Sherlock, and was horrified to see a bloody bruise on his forehead.

Sherlock! What did you do?" he asked, gesturing towards the blood and purple skin.

Sherlock lightly fingered it, and gave a smug smile.

He tried to knock me out." he said, as though the bruise was a rosette.

"But what about tomorrow?" asked John.

"I expect they can cover it in powder." said Sherlock dismissively. "Your injury is more pressing."

"What are you talking about?" asked Lestrade as an ambulance pulled up.

Sherlock helped John to his feet.

"Sherlock's appearing on TV tomorrow." said John, managing to keep a small amount of the pride out of his voice.

With Sherlock's help, he limped towards the ambulance.

"Sherlock? That'll be worth watching! Which show?" asked Lestrade between a strained chuckle.

"That dancing show, The Dance Floor." John called, wishing he had a camera to capture Lestrade's face.

But before he could even see the full effect of his words, medics were swarming round him, pushing him onto a stretcher and muttering 'you'll be fine's and 'don't worry sir's.

Sherlock was striding over, batting away more medics.

"I'll come and see you tomorrow, John." he said as the stretcher was lifted towards the ambulance.

"Get Mrs. Hudson to look at that bruise!" John called. "And don't forget to have something to eat, and get some sleep!"

The doors slammed shut, blocking Sherlock's slightly amused expression from sight.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it (= The next chapter will be the start of the dancing competition! And I'll post it in a week or so. Reviews are the best thing ever, and I really want opinions of my writing. <strong>


	4. Bad Plan

**Okay, next chapter is here. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks again to my beta reader, CountrilGrl!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four - Bad Plan<strong>

**The Next Day, Saturday 9.00 AM**

John was feeling very much better. The doctors had removed the bullet from his leg with no difficulty, and Lestrade had popped round to tell him that the shop keeper had been caught. John was trying to think of titles for his next blog post when Sherlock entered like a whirlwind, bringing the stares of everybody in the ward upon him.

"Sherlock! Did you eat last night?" asked John anxiously as Sherlock seated himself.

"Yes. Mrs. Hudson forced me to have two bowls of soup," said Sherlock, a little sulkily. "But what about you?"

"Fine. There were no problems. I can come home with you-" said John.

"Good. Mrs. Hudson didn't make me a cup of tea this morning." interrupted Sherlock.

"-But I'm not allowed to move around for a week, at least." he continued.

Sherlock frowned slightly, and then his eyes widened slightly.

"You can't come tonight?"

"'fraid not. Sorry. I can watch it on TV." said John apologetically.

Sherlock groaned.

"Trust you to get shot, and the day before this stupid dancing thing." he said viciously.

John couldn't really think of anything nice that could answer that, though he thought that 'It was your fault, not mine' would be appropriate.

"I need to know about this show, John. I have to stay in five weeks." said Sherlock before John could voice his thoughts.

"Well, the show lasts ten weeks, and there are ten couples, ten celebrities, and ten professional dancers. On the first session, you get paired with your dance partner. But after that, you dance every week, and every week one couple go out. They do this thing where you can vote for your favourite couple, but the judges also give them marks out of ten. To stay in, you need high judge marks, but also lots of votes." John paused. "Do you follow?"

"Yes."

"And just to warn you, this thing is in front of a live audience, in the hall and on TV."

"Do you think I'll get stage fright?"

John mutely shook his head.

"I'm supposed to be a celebrity, am I?" asked Sherlock vaguely.

"Well, I suppose. But I wouldn't worry. I've usually never heard of half of them before the show."

Sherlock nodded. He was brimming with that arrogant self-confidence that John hated and loved. It was what made Sherlock, Sherlock.

"And to stay in, I have to get high marks, and lots of votes." Sherlock doubled checked.

"Yeah, dance well to get the judges' marks, and just... Try and be different for the public votes."

"Different? I think I can manage that." said Sherlock shortly.

"I mean, don't be to arrogant, and don't deduce things about the judges."

Sherlock's cold eyes examined him for a moment, then he gave a huffing sound.

"Shall we leave? I want a cup of tea."

**Five Hours Later, 3.00 PM**

It had taken some time to get John up the staircase. Sherlock wasn't really much help, so John had to struggle up to the flat mainly without help. Considering he wasn't supposed to move his leg, it wasn't a great start. Then he got himself settled, leg stretched across the sofa. Sherlock had curled up in a armchair, violin cradled against his chin as he idly plucked notes from it.

So that was how the five hours had passed. Sherlock had made no sign to help John in any way, so it was lucky Mrs. Hudson had brought them some sandwiches for lunch, otherwise John would have starved.

Once John had eaten, and Sherlock had nibbled, it had been a waiting game. Sherlock had drummed his fingers against the armchair from two thirty until three. At exactly three, when Sherlock was opening his mouth to say 'He's late', the door opened, and Mycroft appeared.

"Dreadfully sorry about your accident, John. I hope it's okay."

"Of course it's not okay." snapped Sherlock, rising.

John supposed that snapping was Sherlock's way of dealing with nerves.

"I'll see you later Sherlock." he said wearily.

"On the TV," said Sherlock, reluctantly edging towards the door.

"Try not to blow anything up."

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft raised his umbrella in mock salute. Then the door shut, and for once, the flat was silent. He had - John checked his watch - three hours until the program started.

After a moment's thought, he decided to ring Sarah. She was probably wondering why he hadn't turned up for work today, though it wasn't an uncommon thing.

He leaned over, and grabbed his mobile from where it lay on the coffee table, and dialled her number.

**One Hour Later, 4.00 PM**

Sherlock looked round the spacious dressing room with mild interest. He eyed the set of clothes he was supposed to be wearing disdainfully, and unconsciously pulled his blue scarf a little tighter round his throat. Then he padded over to a corner, and sat down, hoping to remain unseen when the rest of the contestants arrived.

First, the head of make-up arrived, with all her assistants. They bustled round, barely giving him a second glance. Then the 'stars' arrived, and the room was pitched into mayhem. They arrived, all chattering loudly. Five women, and four men. While the make-up people prepared the final few things, they stood in the middle, talking. Sherlock wanted to cover his ears. They were making an awful racket. He scowled angrily at them, pulling his long coat closer about him.

Finally, the head of make-up ordered silence.

"Right, my name's Anne, I'm head of make-up. Before every show, me and my assistants-" _My assistants and I,_ Sherlock mentally corrected, "-will be helping you look your best." She smiled a dazzling smile.

The celebs buzzed excitedly, and Sherlock silently moaned.

"Okay, so I'm going to split you into pairs, and then pair you with one of my team. You'll be working with them the whole season." She smiled again, and began dividing the celebs into pairs.

When Thomas Andrews was standing alone in the room, she paused.

"Did they ever get that tenth competitor?" she asked.

There was a murmur of "Don't know" and Anne frowned.

Sherlock stood, and easily made his way to the centre of the room.

"I'm the tenth." he said coolly, eyeing Anne suspiciously.

All heads turned to stare at him, and there were several muttered "Who the hell is he?"

"Oh, nice to meet you...?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," said Sherlock, more out of habit than anything. He gave the room in general a cold stare. "Shall we move on?"

"Right then, Sherlock. You and Thomas here are with me. Who wants to go first?" she asked brightly.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and Thomas stepped forward, wobbling on his short legs. Now five of the celebrities were seated, having powder coated on their faces, and five were standing in the middle of the room. They were talking, but not quite so loudly under Sherlock's cold eyes.

"What the hell happened to your head?" asked one, who Anne had called Bessie.

Sherlock eyed her coldly. She was tall, slim, cared a lot about her appearance, and thought herself beautiful. Sherlock didn't really think she was anything special.

"Whilst chasing a criminal through a skip warehouse, he attempted to knock me out with the butt of his gun." said Sherlock, ignoring the chorus of 'oohs' this produced. He didn't want to be a hero, especially in these people's eyes.

He was feeling way out of his depth here, surrounded by pampered idiots. More idiotic than Lestrade, and even more so than Anderson. That was saying something. He wished John was with him. He would know what to do... But he was sitting at home with a shot leg.

"So what do consulting whatsits do?" asked Robert, called so by Anne, again.

"A consulting detective." corrected Sherlock.

"Right... And what do you do?" asked Robert.

"When the police are struggling, I come in and solve crimes they can't." Sherlock frowned, tapping his foot against the ground.

He wanted Anne to hurry up, so he could escape these imbeciles.

Luckily, talk of the police distracted the four celebrities from further questioning. They yammered on about something called Crime Time.

"Sherlock, over here." called Anne ten minutes later.

Sherlock strode over, passing a beaming Thomas on the way. He almost gagged at the mix of colours his clothing consisted of, and decided that he would not be dressing up for this occasion.

He delicately seated himself, and Anne was poised to start when he glared at her in the mirror.

"Cover up the bruise, if you must, but nothing else." he said curtly.

Anne's eyes fixed on the bruise, and widened alarmingly.

"Just that then... Okay... I guess you're handsome enough not to need any more doing." she chuckled nervously.

Sherlock pursed his lips.

Five minutes later, he was done. The bruise was covered by a large amount of white powder.

"Right, just step into that changing room, and get into the clothes provided." said Anne, glancing round to see how well make-up was going.

"No thank you, I'd rather stay in these." said Sherlock, hurrying away before she could take drastic action against him.

He joined the group again, and waited on the fringes, praying that it would all be over soon. Maybe he would break his ankle next week... For real if necessary. He couldn't face this again. He had been so naive to think anything Mycroft thought of was a good idea.

"Not changing, Sherlock?" asked one celeb.

"No, if you think I'm wearing-" Sherlock pulled a face. "-That, you've got another thing coming."

The celebrity glanced down at his red and orange clothing, and shrugged.

"Well, my money's on you going out first. You haven't turned up to any of the dancing lessons, any of the interviews, and you won't play the game."

"Oh, believe me, I know how to play a game." said Sherlock, just suppressing the shudder that this statement brought on.

Soon, all the celebrities were standing in the centre of the room, and were herded down into another room. Sherlock curled up in a chair, and blocked out all the noise.

"Right! When your name is called on the loud speaker, go down that staircase, and you'll meet the presenter, Kevin. He'll introduce you to your partner, and then, you come back up here." said Anne imperiously.

Everybody, except Sherlock, nodded and seated themselves, talking with baited breath.

A few minutes later, a voice boomed through a speaker.

"And here, ladies and gentlemen, is our first contestant. Hannah Temms."

A lady of about thirty rose, and quickly made her way to the stairs.

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the interview with 'Hannah Temms' wash over him. Then the next one with Robert High. Slowly, all the celebrities disappeared, then reappeared with their partner, each silently excited. Then, the ninth competitor left, Dennis Maxwell, and Sherlock sat up, carefully adjusting his scarf. All the professional dancers glanced at him.

Dennis Maxwell appeared through the doorway, an elegant lady in tow. Then, the last announcement rang out.

"And now, for our final contestant. Now, the tenth competitor is a bit of a mystery. We all know it's going to be a man, but who exactly. Well let's find out. Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock rose and swiftly crossed the room, then went through the doorway. He elegantly went down the winding stair case, and appeared on the stage. There was a round of interested applause, which he acknowledged with a nod, and then he strode over to the host, Kevin. Though he would never admit it, his heart was hammering against his ribs a little faster than usual.

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><p><strong>Okay, next chapter could be a while, so sorry for that cliffy. It will come quicker if you take the time to drop me a review! I'm planning about having the next chapter in John's POV, good idea, or bad?<strong>


	5. Mystery Guest

**Hey! Next chapter is now up! I really enjoyed writing it, though think the turn out could be better. Still, it was fun. To start with I'm afraid there's nine other contesters, but I'll get shot of them as quickly as possible, nine is way to many to remember. Anyways, enjoy!**

**Many heartfelt thanks to CountryGrl for beta reading this chapter! **

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><p><strong>Chapter Four - Mystery Guest<strong>

**One Hour Ago, 6.00 PM**

John had spent an hour on the phone to Sarah, just chatting, and then read a book until six. Now he grabbed the remote, and flicked the TV on, sitting back.

The first contestant was a lady called Hannah Temms, with long black hair and wide eyes. She had been very giggly, and obviously nervous, and was paired with Toby Dodd, a supposedly well-known dancer. Then, Robert High, partnered with Amelia Rivers. By the end of nine contestants, the standings looked like so:

Hannah Temms – Toby Dodd

Jody Cox – Simon Ray

Bessie Fisher – Jules Western

Sandra Cumbria - Timothy Young

Liz Blake – Jake Sanders

Robert High – Amelia Rivers

Thomas Andrews – Cassandra Blithe

Dennis Maxwell – Gabrielle Fawn

Hugh Long – Nora Patterson

John examined it with interest. He knew a few of the celebrities that had appeared. He also noted that they had left Sherlock until last. Then, when Dennis Maxwell and Gabrielle Fawn had climbed the stairs, Kevin announced the final competitor.

"And now, for our final contestant. Now, the tenth competitor is a bit of a mystery. We all know it's going to be a man, but who exactly. Well let's find out. Sherlock Holmes!"

There was a curious round of applause, and Sherlock appeared at the top of the staircase. John smiled when he saw his friend hadn't dressed in any of the stuff the others had, instead sticking to his long coat and scarf. He lightly descended the stair case, and there was another round of applause. Sherlock came to halt beside Kevin, managing a slight smile, though it was strained. At least, John knew it was strained. But that was probably because he knew Sherlock so well. Sherlock was the king of acting.

"Well, this is the last contester, what a turn out!" said Kevin, as though he personally knew Sherlock. _That's not the way to deal with him,_ thought John, wincing.

Sherlock glanced round, grey eyes seeing everything. He quickly turned his gaze back to Kevin, and gave another fake smile.

"So, Sherlock. First things first. Why haven't you been attending any of our dancing lessons, or the interviews? Surely it's good for marks and votes to do both." said Kevin.

"I only entered last Sunday." said Sherlock, managing to keep his voice neutral.

"Ah! A late entry. So, you will be a bit behind the others, but I wouldn't worry. You'll soon catch up!" said Kevin cheerfully. "Why made you decide to enter at the last minute?"

"My brother. He thought I should enter." said Sherlock. John was sure Mycroft wouldn't be happy.

"Oh. Right then." Kevin seemed a little stumped by Sherlock's reply, but quickly rallied.

"So, did you bring your brother today!"

The camera fixed on an empty set of seats, and quickly flicked away.

"No, he's probably busy." said Sherlock, shifting his weight from one foot to another. _Busy saving England from some kind of crisis._

"No friends? No other family?" _Not likely._ Thought John, almost gleefully. Already things were going perfectly, on the entertainment side of things, for him, John, at least. None of the other members of the audience would fully appreciate what was going on. Kevin was already under stress. He certainly wouldn't be voting for Sherlock.

"I was going to bring my flatmate. But he got shot in the leg, and can't move."

The crowd gave a rippling giggle, and Kevin a nervous chuckle. The crowd, thinking Sherlock was joking, Kevin realising he wasn't.

"So, what is it you do exactly, Sherlock?" he asked, steering the conversation away from flatmates.

"I'm a consulting detective, when the police can't solve a case, I do it for them."

An interested murmur from the crowd. When Sherlock put it like that, it didn't actually sound so bad.

"Now that is exciting! Who wants to be a actor when you can be one of those." said Kevin. "And how often do you solve these crimes?"

"Almost every time, there have only been three incidents when I have... Misjudged my moves." Sherlock shuddered, drawing his scarf a little closer round his neck. John felt the same shiver run down his own back. They were both remembering the 'pool thing'. John didn't know the other two incidents when Sherlock had failed.

"Care to tell us about it?" asked Kevin, unaware of Sherlock's discomfort.

Sherlock suddenly looked a little like a deer in the headlights. It was very slight, and John was sure that very few people would actually notice the slightly widening eyes, and the licked lips as Sherlock tried to think of something.

"I'd rather not." he said finally.

A disappointed groan from the crowd, all of whom had been on the edge of their seats.

"Worried about your reputation? Don't worry, none of us will tell." said Kevin in a chummy kind of way.

Sherlock unleashed the full force of his cold stare, and Kevin quailed. John suppressed a giggle, knowing it wasn't kind to enjoy somebody other than Anderson having to cope with Sherlock's coldest, most hateful gaze.

"Let's just say, it involved bombs." said Sherlock shiftily.

"Well, you really do have an exciting time. Bombs, guns. Anything else you can tell us?" asked Kevin, glancing at something off screen that presumably told him how much longer he had to suffer Sherlock's company. By the dropping of his shoulders, it was quite a while.

"No."

John was fascinated by the way the host, Kevin, had changed. He had been sprightly and good-spirited with the other contesters, but slowly, over the short time he had spent with Sherlock, he had become more and more desperate. Sherlock turned his gaze directly to the camera, grey eyes seeming to fix on exactly where John was, his lips twitched, and then he turned away.

Both Kevin and Sherlock were silent for a moment, Sherlock gazing round the hall, and Kevin trying to think of something to ask.

"So, Sherlock. How do you solve these crimes when the police can't?" asked Kevin.

Sherlock turned back to the anxious presenter, and smiled coldly.

"The police are all blind to what they really need to see," he said grey eyes alight with intelligence. "They miss every clue of importance, instead bumbling around, ruining evidence. They look, I see. It is merely a matter of deducing the facts."

"Oh. And how do you do that?" asked Kevin, realising that Sherlock had just insulted the police force, rather publicly. John was sure Lestrade wouldn't be to happy.

"Haven't I already told you?" asked Sherlock, snappishly. _Don't snap. _John mentally told him. Sherlock claimed he could hear thoughts, though John found that extremely unlikely, let alone when Sherlock was fifty miles away from him anyway. But he tried just the same.

"Oh, you did? Why don't you demonstrate?" asked Kevin, and before Sherlock could protest. "I need a volunteer from the audience." _Oh no, please don't. Please don't let this person being having an affair, or be a serial killer. Or have done anything remotely embarrassing._

Sherlock sighed, and looked back at the camera, rather accusingly John felt. _Don't say anything bad, Sherlock._

A few hands shot up, and Kevin picked out a middle-aged man from the crowd. He walked nervously over, and Sherlock scrutinized him critically. John knew that look. It was the one he used when looking at corpses or experiments. Apparently the random man didn't like the way Sherlock was looking at him, and shifted uncomfortably.

"So, what's your name?" asked Kevin, while Sherlock prowled round the man.

"Dominick Callow." stuttered the man.

John was sure everybody watching was trying to deduce something from this man. Sherlock eyed the man for a few minutes, and there was deathly silence while he did so. Then he gave a triumphant smile.

"Okay, I've got some stuff." said Sherlock finally.

"What?" asked Kevin, along with the rest of the crowd. The man stood nervously, waiting.

"You're in your mid thirties, wife died of cancer, live alone but you have a girlfriend. But you've only been going out with her a few months. You had to stay in late at work, and only just got in here. You came in a separate cab to her," Sherlock leaned in, and took a deep sniff, nodding to himself though John didn't miss the shudder that shook his friend's frame. "You work at a pool cleaning company, and haven't kissed your girlfriend this evening."

Dominick nodded hesitantly, biting his lip. _That wasn't as bad as it could have been, I guess._

"Anything else?" asked Kevin.

"Not really. Not without looking more closely."

"That is... creepy." said Dominick shakily.

Sherlock frowned slightly, but brushed the comment away.

"I got everything right?" he asked.

"Yes, right about everything..."

"Good." Sherlock said, suddenly disinterested.

"Well, that was certainly interesting. Thank you Mr. Callow."

There was a second of silence, then Kevin gave a slow hand clap. Callow left with a slight bow, and Sherlock looked back at the camera.

"That was very interesting. Well done." said Kevin again.

Sherlock gazed impassively at the camera then smiled slightly. John was surprised that Kevin hadn't asked how Sherlock had managed it. Maybe he thought it was all a hoax, or maybe just plain creepy. He resolved to ask the detective when he got back, knowing it would give Sherlock's beaten ego a little hope.

Kevin glanced at the clock, and sighed in relief. Obviously the time he had to spend with Sherlock was over.

"Right, Sherlock. Want to know who your dance partner is?" asked Kevin.

Sherlock's jaw clenched, the word 'dance' bringing him back to his situation. He had been lost in the world of deducing things, in his element. Now he was back.

"I suppose I'll be needing one." he said dryly.

"You will indeed. And here she is, could Tilly Bloom come down!"

A few seconds later, a slender young woman, of about twenty five, stepped lightly down the staircase, and smiled brightly at Sherlock. Sherlock examined her closely, before giving turning away with a smile, a smile which showed he had just deduced everything about this girl.

John also examined Sherlock's dance partner. She was about a head shorter than Sherlock, and wore an elegant green dress, which was a little scanty in places. She glanced curiously up at the tall detective, obviously unsure.

"So Tilly, paired with the mystery guest. What do you think?"

"Well, I've seen the other nine dancing, but I haven't seen Sherlock. So I'll have to wait until training." she said, a slightly strong tinge of something in her accent. John decided that she looked like a nice enough girl.

"Indeed, well you both know you have one week, and then, the first dance. One couple will be leaving, so remember to train hard!"

There was a round of slightly unsure applause and Sherlock and Tilly climbed the stairs together. _The crowd don't know what to make of him. _Thought John, allowing a proud smile to cross his lips.

John flicked the TV off. It certainly had been worth watching Sherlock, though he felt extremely sorry for Tilly, but also for Sherlock. He wasn't made for this kind of stuff. His detective friend would need the determination of steel to stick with the show.

**7.15 PM**

Sherlock entered the small waiting room, which was now empty. Tilly followed him.

"When do you want to meet then, sweetie?" she asked.

Sherlock backed up very slightly. He wasn't sure about this girl yet.

"Tomorrow, nine AM." he said cautiously.

"We're on Bayne street. The dancing house there," she said. "Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, I know where it is." said Sherlock hastily.

Tilly smiled, and nodded.

"Fine then sweetie, I'll see you tomorrow." she said, as Sherlock made a quick retreat.

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><p><strong>I hope it was okay, and it lived up to expectations. If you've got a spare moment, please drop me a review. They mean the world to me. :D<strong>


	6. Not Helping

**Okay I've finally gotten round to getting this chapter up! It took me forever to write, but I'm pretty pleased with the end result! **

**Thank you, CountyGrl for beta reading!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Six - Not Helping<strong>

**8.00 PM, Saturday**

Sherlock staggered into the flat, feeling exhausted and unhappy. The whole thing had been a nightmare, an absolute worst nightmare. The other contestants, Kevin, the crowd, and top of his list, Tilly Bloom. John was eating something Mrs. Hudson had concocted, and smiled cheerily when he saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock! I thought you did great!" he said.

Sherlock felt his spirits rise slightly. If John thought he had done okay, maybe he had a chance of staying in, even though that meant more suffering. He would suffer as much as necessary if it meant catching Moriarty. He _had_ to catch Moriarty.

"It was awful." said Sherlock, slumping in a chair.

"I know. But it'll be worth it, right?" said John comfortingly.

"Yes, I suppose. My partner is awful." he said.

"Really? She didn't look that bad."

"No, she really is." sighed Sherlock.

"Why, what did she do?" asked John, as Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose.

"I can just tell she's going to be awful." he said.

"How can you tell?" asked John, persisting.

"I just can. I am a consulting detective." sniffed Sherlock.

John sighed, evidently Sherlock was in a mood where no reasoning would help him. From experience, John stayed silent. Sherlock lounged, somehow managing to throw his long legs over the back of the chair, and his head hanging over the edge of the seat.

"So when are you going to meet Tilly?" John asked eventually.

"Tomorrow at nine." grunted Sherlock, stretching his arms out until they touched the floor.

"Okay then."

John read a paper, while Sherlock stayed in the same position, his pale face flushing as all the blood ran to his head.

"It's not healthy to do that." said John an hour later.

An upside down shrug.

"Well I'm going to bed. Fancy helping me up?" John asked, though he didn't hold out much hope.

To his surprise Sherlock sighed, righting himself.

"If I really must." he said, helping John to his feet.

_I think the trauma must have hit him harder than I first thought. _John thought as Sherlock assisted him up the staircase.

**8.00 AM, Sunday**

At eight the next morning, John sat, sipping tea. It was a cold and blustery morning. His leg was aching slightly, as he had now finished the pain killers the hospital gave him. But the doctors had told him to expect that, and that it would go away in a few days.

"Are you really sure you can't come with me?" demanded Sherlock as he paced, or rather prowled, around the kitchen.

"Yes Sherlock, I'm sure. You'll be fine." said John patiently.

Sherlock let out a whine of annoyance, and threw himself heavily into the chair.

"It really isn't fair, you know." he muttered under his breath. "First you can't come and watch me at this dancing thing, then you sit on _my_ sofa. And now you won't come with me to dancing lessons." he continued.

"You said yourself you'd only have to go once, and I'll come with you next week." John said, barely paying attention.

Sherlock's whining had gone on all morning.

"I suppose it'll be worth it." said Sherlock eventually.

"You might enjoy it." said John.

Sherlock's silence was answer enough.

"Hadn't you better be going? The traffic's going to be a nightmare." said John, setting his empty mug on the coffee table. Sherlock slowly nodded, and stood, disappearing into his bedroom to get dressed. John was so used to seeing Sherlock in his dressing gown that he'd totally forgotten Sherlock actually needed to get dressed. Five minutes later, the consulting detective appeared, wrapped up in his long coat and scarf. He walked slowly to the door.

"Goodbye John." he said solemnly.

"Bye, and try not to be too horrid." said John, looking up at his pale friend.

Sherlock scoffed under his breath.

"I already know everything about _her. _And I don't intend to waste my time telling her what she already knows."

"Well you don't normally seem to mind."

Sherlock huffed, and a few moments later the door slammed shut. John breathed a sigh of relief, easing his leg into a more comfortable position.

**9.00 AM**

Sherlock paced before the doorway of Bayne's street dance house. Tilly would be late if she didn't arrive in - Sherlock checked his watch - thirty seconds. He could feel his resolution fading again. _Since when have I trusted Mycroft? He's probably dragged me into this for some other reason. There's no chance that Moriarty's going to relax his guard. He'll know its a ruse. _Sherlock huffed to himself, spinning on his heel and crashing into Tilly.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, peering up at him. "Oh, its you. Good. Come on."

Sherlock silently followed her into the dance room. It was large, with a cheap wooden floor, a bar running at hip level all the way round, except for where there were doors, and mirrors covering almost every surface. Through the door on the other side of the room, Sherlock could see a kind of gym, full of people.

"What do you think?" asked Tilly, pulling off her jacket, hat and gloves.

"It's adequate, I suppose." sniffed Sherlock.

"A moment, if you please, Miss Bloom." said Mycroft, beckoning her over.

With a hesitant glance at Sherlock, who was raiding aggression, Tilly followed the older Holmes brother from the room. Sherlock stood perfectly still, waiting. It was only a few minutes later that a slightly shaken Tilly reappeared.

"Your turn Sherlock, quickly now. I don't have long." drawled Mycroft.

Sherlock grudging followed his brother into a hallway, where they stood for a moment. Sherlock glared daggers, while Mycroft twirled his umbrella.

"Miss Bloom passes all security checks, so she is no immediate danger. As do all the judges, the commentator, and the other eight contestants."

"Well that's very heartening." said Sherlock sarcastically.

Ignoring him, Mycroft continued.

"It would be easy for Moriarty to infiltrate the more minor position however. I've already bugged this place, and my men are working on the dance hall."

A yawn from Sherlock.

"Your performance last night leaves a lot to be desired. If you wish to win the public's approval, then you must try." snapped Mycroft.

Sherlock nodded curtly.

"Are you done?" he demanded.

"Yes, though I will be paying more visits."

Sherlock sneered, before turning away and marching back into the dance floor.

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><p><strong>There we go! I hope you liked it.<strong>

**In the next chapter, Sherlock will be doing a little bit of dancing, but be warned, I know nothing about dancing, so it could be awful!**


	7. ChaCha Atrocious

**Here we go, Chapter Seven! I hope you lot are enjoying this! Next chapter will be any time after Christmas (=**

**Thank you, CountryGrl for editing this!**

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven - Cha-Cha Atrocious<strong>

**9.10 AM, Sunday**

Tilly was standing in the middle of the dance floor when Sherlock barrelled through the doors. Sherlock stood for a few moments, until he heard his brother exit the building. He gave a huff of mixed relief and annoyance, and looked at Tilly expectantly.

"Who on earth was that?" she asked shakily.

_The second most dangerous man you'll ever meet,_ Sherlock thought.

"My brother." he said.

However much he wanted to scare Tilly, he knew that for the sake of the chase, he had to refrain from doing so.

"Oh... Y-your brother? He seemed... Uh..." she hesitated, searching for a word which wouldn't be too offensive.

"Despicable?"

Tilly gave a high giggle. She calmed down after a moment, and sat back down.

"Right. Sit." demanded Tilly.

Reluctantly, Sherlock did so.

"Right. We're dancing the cha-cha-cha." said Tilly.

_Cha-cha-cha? And I didn't think things could get any worse._ Sherlock gave a sigh. He could remember a little from his dancing lessons as a child, but it had all been elegant foxtrots and quicksteps.

"Have you ever danced it before?" asked Tilly.

"No." snapped Sherlock.

"Well I guess we'd better get to work." she said, standing up. "We'll add music once you've got a basic idea."

So started Sherlock's first dance lesson in almost twenty years. He couldn't say he enjoyed it, but it was bearable. First she showed Sherlock the basic steps. Then without allowing him to have a go, danced the full dance without him, with the music.

"I didn't get to pick it." she said slightly apologetically. "I only realised why they picked it when you told me you were a detective. It's called No Criminal. "

Sherlock's lip curled at the dance organizer's lack of originality.

"Believe me, I've often been accused of putting a body in front of the police." he said calmly, ignoring Tilly's horrified look.

After carefully watching Tilly as she danced, Sherlock was relieved to find that the dancers seemed to spend most of the time standing at arm's length, side by side. At least, from what Tilly was doing it looked like that. There were a few moments where he guessed that they got a little close for comfort, but nothing he couldn't cope with.

If Sherlock was honest with himself, that was what he was afraid of. Touching. He didn't like anybody touching him, whether it was a medic patching him up after a fight, or a dancer doing some dance with him. Ever since a particularly nasty group of disbanded smugglers had pulled him off the streets, and locked him in a dungeon with a hired torturer. It had only taken his brother a day to find him, but that had been enough and the marks on his body were still visible.

"The main thing is that we keep in time. And keep all the moves nice and clean. And sharp." said Tilly when she finished, panting slightly.

Sherlock nodded. He wished Tilly had somebody she could dance with, so he knew what he had to be doing.

"Okay, so at the start, I'm here. And you there." she said.

They took up their positions. Sherlock feeling utterly stupid.

"Raise your hand, and do this." she said, raising her arm above her head, and twisting the wrist, fingers splayed.

Sure there was a slight blush now tinging his alabaster skin, Sherlock did so. And for the seven seconds of the dance he did complicated twisting with his arm. Once that had mastered the flourish that brought his hand back down to his side, Tilly explained the next step.

"Once you've finished that, I need you to spin on your left foot, anti-clockwise. Keep your right tucked up at your left knee, then plant it and finish the spin, your right leg will be stretched out, and your left bent but underneath you, does that make sense?"

Sherlock tried it. It wasn't as hard as it sounded, though keeping his right leg tucked up until he needed it was probably hardest, and then straightening out so he was half way to the splits, while his left leg was bent, carrying all his body weight was also tricky.

After trying it several times, he considered it mastered, and turned to Tilly.

"Not bad. It can take some people a good half hour to learn that move." she said.

Sherlock almost smiled.

"So, let's try that again from the beginning. And when you finish the spin, stretching out your left arm, fingers splayed."

So they tried it. For seven seconds they both twirled their arms around, then then both span, Sherlock blindly sticking out his left arm. He felt Tilly's finger's lace his, and push it up, and then became suddenly aware her face was inches from his.

With a strangled gasp he would never admit to uttering, he started back, shaking slightly. Tilly had paled, and rushed over, but Sherlock stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you?" she asked anxiously, hands covering her mouth as she watched the panicked detective.

Sherlock shook his head, taking a calm breath.

"No. It was nothing. I'm just not good with being close to people." he said, calm now.

Tilly chewed her lip.

"Why?"

"I have a lot of enemies. Some have... Captured me before. Needless to say after those visits I have become increasingly afraid of being touched," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "As long as you don't surprise me again however, I shall be fine."

Tilly's hands had come back to her mouth, and Sherlock, now fully recovered from his surprise, sighed.

"Come on. Let's try again."

Tilly nodded, shaking herself.

"Right, when I grab your hand, I'll push it up as high as I can. I want you to look at me, and then pull me closer by holding your arm upright. Sound okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and they repeated the steps they had already done, then the step Tilly had explained. As commanded when he felt her hand, he jerked his head over to look at her, and found she was leaning forward, out of balance because of pushing Sherlock's arm so high. Quickly, Sherlock pulled her up by raising his arm. Standing on tiptoe so she could keep a grasp on Sherlock's hand, Tilly was pressed against him.

"Right, that wasn't bad. Next I'm going to push you away, but you'll pull me forward." she said.

She brought her left hand round, and pushed forcefully against Sherlock's chest, he stepped back two paces, and then pulled her forward. She released his hand, and spun three times before ending up on his right side.

"There, you're supposed to catch me. I'll drop almost to the floor, and then you pull me up, and I'll spin across into your left arm, and we'll do the same." she explained.

Sherlock nodded silently, and they started again.

**11.30 AM**

It had been harder than Sherlock would like to admit. Their dance routine was one minute and thirty-eight seconds long. And they had reached the minute mark. Still, Tilly seemed extremely pleased.

"You could go in and dance now without feeling ashamed, but there is room for improvement." she said.

Sherlock nodded. She had obviously realised that he was no amateur, and that she hadn't drawn the short straw in terms of skill. In terms of getting along, she had. They hadn't exactly had an argument, but Sherlock had made several very snide remarks. He checked his watch as they sat having a quick break, annoyed to find it was only eleven-thirty. He reckoned he could leave without seeming impolite however.

"I should be going back. My flatmate's been shot, and he needs lunch." he said.

Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would sort John out. But it was a way of getting away for a bit. It was awfully stuffy in the dance room.

"Shot?"

"In the leg. He can't move."

Tilly's hand were back at her mouth, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So can I go?" he demanded.

"Of course. When are we meeting again?"

"How about tomorrow? Same time."

"Alright. But you'll have to stay until the afternoon as we've got to feature in some footage."

"What?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, they're coming round the do some interviews, and film us dancing."

Sherlock moaned. Then grabbed his jacket and scarf.

"I'll have to get somebody to look after John." he said, before stalking out of the room.

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><p><strong>As I said in the last chapter, I know nothing about dancing, so I'm sorry for any mistakes there may be in this! I hope you enjoyed it, and and please review! It is the Christmas season :D<strong>


	8. No Blogging

**Hey everybody. I'm really sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy :p**

**Thank you CountryGrl for betaing.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight - No Blogging<strong>

**12.00 PM, Sunday**

Sherlock took his time getting back to the flat, relishing the harsh wind which chilled his face. He finally reached Baker Street, and unlocked the door, taking the steps three at a time. He strode into the living room, not surprised to see John with a plate of sandwiches on his lap.

"Oh... Hello Sherlock," he said, smiling and waving a sandwich vaguely.

Sherlock gave a thin lipped smile, and seated himself primly.

"How did training go?"

Sherlock's slightly sincere smile dropped.

"It was bad. Well, it didn't go badly, but it was boring." he said.

"Oh, well that's a shame. What dance are you doing?"

"The cha-cha-cha." said Sherlock, mimicking a young women's voice with creepy accuracy.

John started, and shook his head.

"Well, mastering it alright? Any problems?"

Sherlock hesitated, unsure of whether to be truthful or not.

"A small one. I got a shock when Tilly was suddenly in my face."

John frowned, obviously not sure what that meant.

"Part of the dance," sighed Sherlock.

John nodded, and started on another sandwich.

"Tomorrow, I have to be out all day." said Sherlock, breaking the silence.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Practice, of course. And I have to be filmed." Sherlock sneered.

"Right." said John vaguely.

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest, and rested his head on them, watching John down another sandwich.

"Mrs. Hudson came up. She thought you were brilliant last night. She was raving. I think you've got one voter," said John when he had finished the ham sandwich.

Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"I forgot about the voting thing. So I'll get what, two votes each time?" he said mournfully.

"Two? How do you figure that?" asked John.

"Well, you and Mrs. Hudson." said Sherlock.

"I never vote. Waste of money." said John.

Sherlock heaved a huge fake sigh.

"Please, John, I'll be worth it if I catch Moriarty," he said.

John rolled his eyes.

"Fine. And thinking about it, I'm sure Lestrade will vote too. Just so he can tease you."

Sherlock moaned again, and buried his face in his knees.

"I bet the whole of the yard saw it too. I wonder if they'll vote for you too..." John said reflectively.

"John, shut up! This is a serious situation. And don't you dare put it on your blog!" Sherlock half sobbed, half screamed, slightly muffled because his head was still buried in his knees.

Good idea, John thought, but didn't voice it seeing Sherlock's miserable state.

"Come on. Stop moaning. You decided to do this. We're doing this to save lives, remember? If I'll put it on my blog, maybe people will read it and vote. That's we're working for, right?" he said soothingly, watching the six-foot detective fondly.

Sherlock drew a deep breath, and raised his head and shaking the curls from his face.

"Alright. Thank you, John. Mycroft said I needed to be better on TV next time," said Sherlock, pulling a face as he said his brother's name, as though it was something distasteful that had died on his bed.

"I don't think you should pretend to be somebody else. Be yourself, but don't be as nasty as normal," said John.

Sherlock nodded, obviously mentally taking note. Then he gave John a thin smile.

"I'm free for the day. I wondered if you wanted to hobble down to the yard, and see if they've got any cases?" he asked brightly.

John hesitated. He wasn't supposed to move for another five days at least. But... He was a doctor, and he personally considered the one week movement ban to be paranoia.

"Alright then. But no roaring off. And we're taking a cab." he said, getting up.

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><p><strong>12.30 PM<strong>

They arrived at the yard some time later, Sherlock for once waiting for John to ease himself out of the cab, and then keeping his steps slow so John could just about hobble after him. John was a little surprised by Sherlock's consideration, but he supposed that the detective wanted some support, and that this was his way of getting it.

They passed through a completely silent office, everybody staring at Sherlock as though he were an alien. It was only when they reached Lestrade's office, that the reason was made clear. Sally was leaning against the door, clipboard in hand.

She looked up, and saw the detective and doctor, and gave a derisive snort.

"Ah, and here comes the 'mystery guest'," she sneered.

If looks could kill, Donovan would have been burnt alive and stabbed to death. Sherlock gave a regal sniff after delivering this look.

"If you could please let us past Sergeant Donovan." he said coolly.

"Oh, but I want to talk about last night," she said with mock sincerity.

"There is nothing of interest to discuss," snarled Sherlock, lashing out with his customary anger.

Sally raised her eyebrows.

"Oh really? So what were you doing yesterday evening?" she asked.

"I was appearing on a dancing show. I'm surprised you were watching it. Wasn't your attention somewhere else?"

Anderson appeared in a doorway, and Sherlock smirked.

"What a shame. It seems that Anderson's floors didn't need scrubbing, meaning you had to resort to watching rubbish television" said Sherlock, and with his smirk still firmly in place, he brushed past Donovan and forced Lestrade's door open.

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><p><strong>Okay. There we go. Hopefully I can get the next chapter up soon. Please review!<strong>


	9. Back In, Back Out

**Okay, slightly quicker update this time! Hope its alright and all that malarkey. I haven't even written the next chapter, so we'll see.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine - Back Out, Back In<strong>

**12.30 PM, Sunday**

Once safely inside Lestrade's office, and away from the taunts of the yard, Sherlock sighed in relief.

"Ah. Sherlock." said Lestrade, and there was a clear snigger in his tone.

"If you're going to mock me, I'll leave." said Sherlock flatly.

Lestrade pursed his lips in an attempt to stop a smile.

"Yes. Of course. What do you want?"

"Cases. Anything to distract me." snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded, opening a folder on his desk and rifling through the pages inside. He eventually drew out a bundle of about twenty pages.

"Here. It's nothing exciting," he said, passing to Sherlock. "And you have to bring it back by Tuesday."

Sherlock nodded, and stalked out. John made to follow, but Lestrade stopped him.

"I see he's in a good mood." he whispered.

John smirked.

"Yeah, just a bit. He's not happy." John said, shaking his head.

"Why on earth did he enter?"

"You heard him. Mycroft." said John.

Even though he trusted Lestrade, the fewer people that knew about the plan, the better. "Oh. That's it?"

"Well... There's a reason. For a case." said John eventually.

Lestrade nodded.

"Okay. I understand," he said, smiling.

John limped out of the office, and followed an impatient Sherlock out of the building.

**Six Days Later, Saturday, 2.00 PM**

The six days had passed in a relatively uneventful way. Uneventful, when you were living with Sherlock that is. He put a bullet through all the lights in the living room, apparently practicing his aim. By Wednesday, he'd perfected the dance, and stayed home, lounging on the sofa.

John couldn't help but think that following Mycroft's idea had been a bad plan, as it seemed more and more unlikely that Moriarty would do anything.

And now it was the first day of the show, and Sherlock was even worse than ever. John didn't know if it was nerves or not. But whatever it was, it wasn't good fun to be on the receiving end. As Sherlock spun round on his heels with a click for the hundredth time, John was pretty sure he was going mad.

"Can't you sit down?"

"This was a bad idea, John. I should never, ever listen to Mycroft." he muttered.

"Yeah, of course. Though you were the one that decided to go for it." John pointed out wearily.

Sherlock threw himself into a chair, pressing his hands together.

"I'm pulling out after this. I'm not doing it any more." he said.

"What? You're giving up?" John demanded.

"It's just not me, John. I don't want to do this. This isn't how I want to catch him."

John frowned. It would be somewhat of a relief to him. Sherlock had been ten times more highly-strung than normal.

"Well, as long as you're sure."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll do one dance. I have wasted my whole week on it. And then I'll pretend to twist an ankle." he said.

John shrugged.

**Four Hours Later, 6.00 PM**

The few hours until the dance passed quickly, and before anybody knew anything, Sherlock was whisked away by Mycroft. John had promised to turn up, which made things a little better. And then he could be free. And he knew this was what he wanted. He didn't want to beat Moriarty like this.

So he greeted Tilly civilly, not commenting about her dead grandfather, and just sat quietly in a corner. The other stars were annoying, babbling on excitedly. Tilly seemed to assume it was nerves, as she tried to force a sugary bar of something down him.

Then they were forced to change into some ridiculous costumes. The head of make-up seemed inordinately relieved that there was no bruise to cover up this time, and Sherlock was half tempted to smack his head against the wall, just to cause annoyance.

He carefully stowed his phone in a pocket. If... Just in case he needed it.

The first couple went on, and, five couples later, they were called onto the stage.

The crowd was ever bigger than before, and Sherlock glanced round, catching sight of his own face on screen. He sighed heavily, pursing his lips and heading over to his start point. He easily zoned out the crowd, and began.

Three minutes later, it was all over, thankfully. The dance had gone perfectly, of course. Tilly beaming at him at the end, obviously pleased to pieces that she had bagged the best dancer.

She pulled him over to the judges table, where Kevin waited nervously.

"Ah, so Sherlock. How was that?" he asked, twisting the card in his hand anxiously.

"Fine."

Sherlock glanced over to where John was sitting, receiving a smile. He twisted his lips slightly in return, before looking back to Kevin who was talking to Tilly.

"-great partner." she said, smiling up at Sherlock.

He nodded absently.

"So, judges. What did you think?" asked Kevin, turning to the five judges.

The main judge, a women of about forty, who was actually happily married, spoke.

"It was very good for a first timer." she said weakly.

Sherlock nodded, barely paying attention to the words. When he got home, he'd probably go out to Angelo's, and eat something. John would like that, and to be honest, the stress was draining him. The other four judges said their comments, one having the cheek to say he didn't seem to actually be 'feeling' the dance.

Sherlock ignored him.

Finally, the scores were put up. Four nines and an eight. Which was by miles the best score of the night. The crowd was clapping its approval, when Sherlock felt it buzz.

His phone.

He'd been dreading this. Or maybe, he hadn't. Maybe he'd been hoping for it.

Either way, it came as a shock, and as the clapping died down slightly, and Tilly attempted to pull him off the stage, he whipped his phone out, feeling it tremble in his hands. Tilly and Kevin were staring at him, and he risked a glance up at the screen, and saw his own deathly pale face looking back at him.

Swallowing, he unlocked the phone.

_You get a perfect ten from me, baby._

_JM xxx_

He stared at the text, vaguely hearing Tilly gently calling him, still trying in vain to get him off the stage. The crowd was silent, wondering what the strangest guest of the show was up to. Sherlock spun round to where John sat, face pulled into different looks of fear.

"It's him John." he said, voice clearly echoing through the stadium due to a microphone not-so cunningly hidden. John's face fell, surprise and even more worry flashing across his features.

"Sherlock!" Tilly said urgently. "We're running late."

Sherlock ignored her, eyes staying locked with John's. He hadn't really expected Moriarty to respond to his appearing on TV so quickly. He thought it would take a few nights. That's why he thought it would be safe to pull out. Maybe it still was. Who knew.

His turmoil was broken by John mouthing at him to get off stage. He did so, practically running, Tilly following behind, eyes as wide as saucers. On the TV screen, he saw John get up, muttering excuses to the people who sat around him, and hurry off. Once they were in the dressing room, Sherlock stopped.

"What was that all about?" demanded Tilly, angrily glaring at him.

The few remaining stars watched him bemusedly.

"Come on, we have to go." she said.

"No. We're waiting for John." said Sherlock firmly.

He glanced over the text once again, his blood running cold.

A few minutes later, John hurried in, out of breath and pale. Sherlock hurried up to him, silently passing him the phone. There was complete silence.

"Oh gods." murmured John, handing the phone back and running a hand through his hair.

"Indeed. I didn't think... I was an idiot." Sherlock admitted.

John smiled faintly at him, shaking his head.

"Are you still going to withdraw?" he asked.

"What? Withdraw? Why Sherlock, you'll get the best score of the night." Tilly snapped from a few paces away.

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"I'm not playing his game." he said finally.

John nodded, and they both made for the exit, Tilly trailing along, murmuring protests.

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><p><strong>Review? *puppy eyes*<strong>


	10. Moriarty

John followed Sherlock without question out of the theatre, ignoring the few photographers. Thankfully they hadn't yet caught wind of Sherlock pulling out. Tilly was still by them, anger and annoyance passing over her face.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded angrily as Sherlock hailed a cab.

He turned to her, the lingering traces of fear still on his face.

He looked different, the street lamp casting shadows onto his face, giving him an eerie look.

His eyes fixed on her.

"I never entered this because of the dancing. That was just a downside to the whole thing. I did this to catch a consulting criminal. It was foolish, and I'm pulling out." he said calmly.

"But... Your scor-"

"I'm not interested in that." Sherlock repeated.

Tilly shot John a desperate look, but he shook his head.

"What was the text about?" she tried last.

"It was from the criminal mastermind. Now please excuse us."

John almost felt sorry for the girl as Sherlock practically dived into a cab, leaving her bewildered and alone. John climbed in after him, and the cab started off, leaving the building, dancing and press behind. Sadly not the fears however, and they sat in a tense silence for the whole trip.

"I was wrong." Sherlock said quietly.

"Mycroft was. Anyway, you've brought him back into action. Isn't that what you wanted?" John asked, slight bitterness tingeing his voice.

Sherlock made no reply, simply staring out into the darkness as the cab glided through London. The silence stretched on endlessly, until finally they stopped outside 221B.

Sherlock was faffing around on the doorstep, and it took at least two minutes to get into the flat. John ignored his muttering, stomping straight upstairs.

It hadn't been a great day. So far, his friend had pulled out of the nationally huge competition, a criminal genius had texted them, and said friend was in a bad mood, because he was trying and failing to take down said criminal genius.

He shoved the door open, freezing on the spot when he heard the all too familiar, chill-inducing voice.

"Why hello." Moriarty said, from his position on Sherlock's chair.

Immediately the detective was behind him, easily seeing over John's shoulder. There was deathly silence. A silence that had never been more oppressive, stifling and suffocating.

Moriarty was comfortably seated in the chair, though it had been turned to face the doorway. The TV was on behind him, showing the dancing show. But his cold, black eyes were focused on Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, absolutely nothing in his voice.

No fear. No coldness, anger or excitement.

"Why, darling! I thought you'd like to see me again. We didn't really leave on the best of terms, did we now?" that irritating, singsong voice chirped, sending shudders down John's back.

"I'm not interested in your games, Moriarty." Sherlock told him, pushing past John.

"Jim, please," Moriarty smirked. "And I wouldn't try making a break for it. Either of you. I have a sniper on the door."

Sherlock snorted softly, glancing round the room.

"It was stupid, incredibly stupid to enter that competition, Sherlock." Moriarty stated, voice serious.

There was no reply from the detective. John could see very little past him. Just Moriarty, and a tiny corner of the room.

"But where are my manners? Please come in." Moriarty snickered.

Sherlock didn't move for a second, then slowly entered the room, shrugging his coat off. John followed him, and they sat down on the sofa, Sherlock folding the coat over his knees. Moriarty's eyes narrowed for a moment, before he spun the chair to face them fully.

"Did you really think that would fool me, Sherlock? Did you really think dancing would catch me?"

No answer again. Sherlock was mute, hands 'absently' fiddling with his coat. John could see them moving closer and closer to his pocket, Moriarty not noticing as his eyes were clashing with Sherlock's.

"And you ruined my plan. If only you'd continued to run round London with your little pet. We'd have had so much fun. I believe there are several threats I have to carry out." Moriarty shifted, bringing a gun from underneath his leg.

Sherlock's only reaction was a quirk of the lips, though John could feel his own pulse speed up slightly as the weapon wavered between the two of them. Sherlock's fingers were now inside his pocket, and moving in a barely noticeable pattern.

"And I'd really hoped you'd be interesting Sherlock. I thought we were alike. But it seems not."

"Upon what evidence do you base this?" Sherlock asked.

"Really, do I need to answer that? You were stupid enough to listen to your brother. Stupid enough to think that I would take the bait."

"It seems you have." Sherlock replied, his fingers stopping, curling in his pocket.

"Only a teensy problem Sherlock. It seems I have the upper hand, wouldn't you say?" Moriarty replied.

There were three beats of silence.

"Maybe."

"Ooh, you begin to intrigue me. Does your pet have a plan?"

Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance, in which every movement was telling him to get ready.

His hand withdrew from his pocket, no lack of speed hiding the movement.

"What's that?" Moriarty demanded, uncertainty coating his voice.

"A little something from yours truly." Sherlock replied, tapping John's ankle.

The next eight events happened in a matter of seconds. It would be almost impossible to put them in order, as they happened almost at exactly the same time.

Sherlock drew his hand back, and at the very same time, Moriarty stood, gun still clutched in his hand. John readied himself as Sherlock threw his phone, jumping after it, and sending up a prayer that Moriarty wouldn't shoot him. The phone and John collided against Moriarty at almost the same time, toppling him.

While John was wrestling with Moriarty, several pieces of furniture toppling in the struggle. Then the window shattered, and things became even more hectic for an instant.

There was blood everywhere. And it wasn't from the smashed glass scattering all over the room. It was from the things that had smashed them. Police sirens were wailing. Somebody was shouting, and there was screaming too. All John could feel was pain. All he could see was blood. Blood covering the face of a consulting criminal, blood covering his hands. Blood covering the floor.

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><p><strong>Right, I am hugely sorry for the even huger update! I was just a lazy git :p Now, I am sorry that this is getting a bit rushed, but there will only be one more chapter, as writer's block isn't making this easy. So, apologies again. If you've got the time, review.<strong>


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